Angel-Shaped Life Preserver
by MyMoniker
Summary: Dean's struggling not to be overcome by the mess his life has become, but he never expected their angel in a trench coat to the be only thing keeping him from drowning. [Slow at first, angsty, friends to lover]


_Sam was happy. He was laughing and he had his arm around a woman; Jess. She was beautiful, her blonde hair fell past her shoulders, her pretty face split into a sunny smile. Something drew their attention, and they turned to look at a crib behind them. Sam stepped closer and when he turned back around he was cradling a baby girl in his arms, beaming down on her like she was the best thing ever to happen to him. And then he looked up, right past Jessica cooing at their daughter, and without his bright expression shifting, he said calmly, "It's your fault this isn't real, Dean."_

Dean jolted awake, his pulse speeding and his mind reeling. He could see feel the perfect bliss of that fabricated scene.

With his stomach churning, he threw himself out of bed and barely managed to reach the bathroom before he threw up.

Five minutes later, when Sam woke up from the other bed in that simple motel room, it was to find Dean sat in the bathroom with his legs pulled against his chest, head bowed down and resting on his knees.

"Hey Dean," he said, voice still thick with sleep, "what're you doing up so early?" A moment of silence passed, Dean counting his breaths instead of replying to that dumbass question. "You weren't sick were you?" his silence was enough of a confession for Sam. "Jeez, Dean, I didn't even think you were drinking that much." He still couldn't say anything. "I'm going for a run. Clear out of the bathroom by the time I'm back, alright?"

Sam was moving around in the other room, and a minute or two later the motel room door clicked shut behind him.

Dean let out his breath in a rough groan and forced himself to get to his feet. He turned to face the mirror with a sigh. His hair was messed up from sleep but his eyes weren't bloodshot like they'd have been if he drank himself sick. No, he knew it wasn't any outside influence that turned his stomach this time.

It had been hitting him lately. All of Sam's problems. All of this suffering. He couldn't see an end to it, for either of them – not that he cared much about himself, the only happy future for him would be Sam's.

And that goddamn dream just summed all his misgivings right up: If he hadn't gone knocking all those years ago, Sammy would've finished college and married Jessica and had a family, he could've had a _normal_ life.

Dean had known he had no way out of this life from the beginning. Even when he was a kid he knew he was in it for the long-haul, but Sam had always been different. He'd resented hunting, hated that their dad dragged them from state to state; teaching them to protect themselves and fight these monsters when all Sam really wanted to do was go to school and have a home and be a normal kid. And Dean knew that the only reason Sam had stayed as long as he did was because of him, because he didn't want to go off and leave his big brother after all Dean had done for him.

And John had been pissed. He hadn't understood why Sam would rather go to law school that get revenge for mom – never mind that it had been two decades and they still didn't have a single goddamn lead. Dean had got it from the start. He'd seen how Sam thrived during those few times they actually enrolled into high schools for a short time, before they were back on the road again. And even if he knew he'd miss his brother like a lost limb, he was happy to know he had a chance at a normal life.

But dad had to go and screw up, had to go missing.

Dean had looked up to John more like a superior officer than a father, but he loved him and he wasn't about to leave him to die. Sam was his only option.

And yet there he was, years on and dad was dead and he'd lost Sammy more times than he liked to count, caused more damaged and saved more lives than he remembered.

It was just hard some mornings to decide if everything was worth it.

The door opened again and Sam jogged inside, rolling his shoulders as he made a beeline for the bathroom, stopping only to grab some clothes from his bed. "You done, Dean?" he asked, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "I need a shower."

"Yeah, sure, Sammy," Dean replied, trying to keep his tone level, he stepped past Sam, walking over to the table and occupying himself with the gun resting on it. He stripped the gun without really thinking about it, letting his hands fall into the familiar process just by feel. Dean was cleaning up the parts as Sam stepped out of the shower shortly after, wearing his usual jeans and a random plaid shirt.

"Hey…Dean?" Sam asked, sidling over to the table, his brows pulled together in a frown. "Is everything alright?" he asked, taking to chair opposite. "Something seems off…"

He gave a cocky smile and rolled his eyes, setting the gun parts back down. "Is this the part where we confess all about our emotions and start gossiping about boys?" he asked snarkily, though Sam clearly heard his humour.

"I didn't know you swung that way," Sam smirked back, and they fell back into their usual pattern. Dean's melancholy hidden once again behind a veneer of self-depreciation and weak humour; it had always been enough to hide it from Sam though – well, usually.


End file.
